


The Cruelty of Kind Deeds

by synonym



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym/pseuds/synonym
Summary: Jeeves announces that he is engaged to be married and will be leaving the services of Bertram Wooster in a matter of two weeks. He takes a young valet under his wing to take his place in Mr. Wooster's life and he begins to realize that sometimes kind and selfless deeds can have the cruelest of consequences.





	1. Prologue

Have you ever heard the cruelty in the kindest of things? It exists in the very basis of nature. Every decision has a consequence and even when one makes a choice they believe to come from a kind and selfless place in their soul, there remains an underlying cosmic reaction that affects another. A true selfless act itself can be, in turn, an act of cruelty to one’s self or another. But it is left to be said, should one then choose an act of kindness or an act of selfishness? I have spent my life believing that the latter was the answer to success, that I had built my reputation upon its foundation. Perhaps it had been etched into my existence from a mere child, watching how the rich maintained their power and wealth through that very basis and learning to weave that into the psychology of my own social status became like a stepping stone. I made a pattern, short bouts of employment while displaying my array of capabilities, building a system that gave me praise without faults, within doing so I made a name for myself.

And then I met him. 

He threw everything I knew out the metaphorical window and I found myself having to keep up in the strangest of fashions, and by the time I realized I was actually content for the first time in my existence, it had been far past the time I usually spent in an employ and I was far gone in rapture for the man. Thus I stayed and remained in the glow of his existence, without any desire to continue my warped manipulative social climbing and time went by without much thought to its passing.

I received a telegram from an old friend, the term friend was subjective, but both our fathers had been employed at the same manor for the Threepwood family when we were young and had spent a great deal of time together learning the ropes of our social status. She had been a shy girl with hardly much to say so we would spend much time around each other in silence under a large oak tree that hid in the huge, well manicured acres of land. I would read novels I had borrowed from the library and she would scratch away at a weathered notebook filled with detailed drawings of flowers she observed in our surroundings. We were the only children that were close in age, although she had been several years younger than myself, company was still company even without words shared. 

_I NEED YOUR HELP PLEASE MEET AT FAIRFIELD INN ON WEDNESDAY EVENING STOP_

Having a lingering fondness for the childhood we had shared, I had met with her that night, rearranging my night off with my employer with ease. He is an easygoing, sympathetic individual and one hardly needed an a reason for any kind of change or rearrangement. I wish he had given me a reason not to go, in hindsight, but he was never one to deny me anything. Or anyone, for that matter. 

When I arrived, she had a tear stained face and she had been sniffling.

“Oh, Reginald, I don’t know what to do,” She wept and my heart had went out for her. I may have an particular disdain, the exception being my doe-eyed employer, for the upper class however I felt greatly for anyone of my social status that was in a terrible situation. And, believe me when I tell you, Ruth Benjafield was in a terrible situation and she recounted it to me then.

She had been working as a housemaid for a wealthy family with a rather cruel head of the household, not an uncommon occurrence but was still an unpleasant one, who had been continuously making advances on her person for some time. She hadn’t found another employment before one night it was taken too far and she was forced into an act I cannot repeat in written word. She didn’t have to say, either, as I knew when she burst into tears exactly what had occurred. She explained to me that she left there with hardly the funds to do so, and began a job as a waitress in the city while living in the spare room of her sister’s small dwellings. This wasn’t the issue, it was the fact that she had realized just days prior to our meeting that she was with child without a husband. Although society was moving forward, it was still an act of quiet sin to have a child without a father being in the picture through marriage. Once the news would spread, she would lose her lodgings with her sister, a devout catholic, her job as no one would continue to employ her with such a reputation, and she have no money or habitation for her or her future child’s survival. 

She had begged me to aid her find a solution and I felt compelled to do so, as I hardly had the opportunity to help with something other than shallow entreaties from the acquaintances of my charming Mr. Wooster, so I made her a promise that I would find her an answer. She had given me a small smile, the first glimmer of hope she had probably seen in some time and I felt a sense of that incorrigible honour my employer never ceases to stop discussing.

I had spent my life a selfish man, but he had awakened a different view in my jaded perception of the world. He spent every day, whether he complained of it or not, putting others before himself and before his own desires. I do not believe he even realizes he is doing it, but it is an instinctive reaction for him. It solely matters that another human being was content and whatever it meant for himself, it didn’t have any value. It constantly got him into difficult situations that I had to cleverly fix for him but it was always held a sense of awe in my concept of his being. It also slowly began to creep into my own values like a virus. 

I went through many options in my mind of a solution that would fit her circumstances but it was all too dire and for the first time in quite some time I was at a loss at what to do. There had been an option, nagging at the pit of my stomach, which spawned from the best part of myself, the part that I only realized existed after meeting Mr. Wooster and it ate away at the conscious of my person. 

_(If he could do it everyday, could I not try to spare another of a terrible future by sacrificing myself? Is that not what I gained from him? Would he not be proud if he knew, which he would not, but in a metaphorical kind of manner?)_

When I told her my solution, she was hesitant at first, demanding that I was sure and that going back and forth between chewing her nails and repeating the words ‘I cannot ask you to do that for me, Reginald,” like a broken recording of sorts and I felt the sense of dread pooling in my stomach.

_(I had no knowledge that kind deeds did not carry weight of kindness within it and it was a realization that my employer was a far stronger man than anyone gave him credit for.)_

My entire world would be torn apart, without question, but perhaps it was my turn to offer a selfless act in the same confounding way my employer did. I believe, although not particularly a wise man, he was a man who had lived his life without a single selfish regret. 

She inevitably agreed, as it was the only branch of hope she had and she was not solely thinking of herself but of the life that rested in her womb, and I had a part of myself wished that she would have denied it.

_(I still remain a selfish man, no matter how deeply my Mr. Wooster has affected me.)_

I fairly certain it had been a few nights after our first meeting when we came to this understanding and shook hands, hers shaking in contrast to my steady but gentle grip, as if it is a business deal rather than an act of affection. Her auburn hair was spiraled in a bun, pieces had tumbled out from her tremors, and she mouths these words, no sound forming from her throat, "Thank you."

I feel no satisfaction from my decision, merely an aching, burning sensation that I attempt to drown in three glasses of scotch when I leave her sister's dwellings. I try to think of the sense of the damning honour that he had, but it only brings me thoughts of him and how indefinitely can be now quantified in a matter of weeks.

_(I feel like I am suffocating in a silent panic. Selfish, self-serving panic.)_

_('There is a tie that binds, sir,' 'A what that whats?')_

I make my return home. Home. My stomach seems to roll at the concept, a familiarity I thought that would never cease to continue and I turn the knob, which stood out to me with acute sensitivity, the cool of the metal, the ridges of the details, into the view of my nestled employer on the couch in the distance.

His head turns to my arrival, his eyes light up in the recognition and the burning sensation grows into a near painful, heart ripping feeling that scorches my rib cage. 

"Jeeves," He exclaims and I want to crumble, "I'm so glad you have returned, I had been reading this incredible novel, honestly it is la crème de la crème of mystery novels, by a chap named Lafleur, but at any rate, I just got to this pickle in the narrative that you will bally well enjoy,"

"Sir," I force myself to interject, and it feels like a sin to disrupt the joyous dishevelment of his body wrestling into a sitting position, his hair rustled, his dress shirt pulled out of the hem of his trousers with several buttons undone. He looks ravishing, his bottom lip slightly swollen from gnawing on it during his intense reading, and I want to capture it in a still. 

"They even reference Spinoza, which of course, makes me think of you and your love of filling your cranium with all of that psychology and philosophy whatsits and such-"

"Sir."

He pauses then, my stoic tone must have broke, as he began to search my face with a sudden intensity I rarely saw in his soft and boyish features. 

"What is it, Jeeves?" The aching concern in his voice has me feeling as though my knees may give out at any moment, "What's wrong? Tell me this instant," It is a soft plea as he stands and clutches the novel to his chest.

I have to say it, let it pass my lips before my selfish desire comes crawling back into my bones and I turn around and walk my way back to Miss Benjafield's lodgings, taking back the promise I had given her, crumbling her as I crumbled now. I want to attempt to say it with a sense of pleasantry, as one would in the normal occurrence, but I don't trust my throat not to waver in the building panic that fills my mind.

_(You made a promise to him. How can you leave him? He needs you, he needs this, he needs you. You burned the pages, you told him. You gave him this, you will ruin him. You will ruin you.)_

"I have to give you my formal notice of two weeks, sir," The words sound foreign to my own ears as I speak them, "as I am engaged to be married in approximately the same amount of time to Ruth Benjafield."

The world, as it becomes concrete in the vocalization of the choice I have made, seems to shatter at my feet.


	2. Chapter One

I drop my novel.

I don’t quite remember the page of which I was on or what had been occurring that I felt the need to blabber on so long to him without realizing the solemnity of his expression, but it feels pertinent to say as its descent onto the hardwood, the fluttering of the pages as it slides to a motionless angle and the corner of the cover resting against my large toe, is the only thing that keeps me from thinking that this is some bally awful dream I was having after nodding off on the couch. I attempt to process his words as my brain is completely focused on the weight of the book on my foot.

It doesn’t make any sense at all, it doesn’t sound like english, it doesn’t sound like him. I blink several times and there is no continuation of his sentence, he is staring at me with the stuffed frog expression and I feel like we were thrown back several years into one of our first blow outs over some article of clothing and we had said some pretty nasty stuff to one another. Likely more me than him, he had always preferred to use the professional cold shoulder as a means of revenge, but I feel like we stood in this very spot.

“I’m dreadfully sorry but I must have misheard you, Jeeves,” I say with a smile forcedly plastered on my face, “This Wooster brain was so caught up in the exciting events of my literary adventure, I believe it’s carried over into my reality for a mo,”

“If you heard that I am engaged, sir, there is no misunderstanding,” He says it as if he is writing a grocery list, as if it was a description of the current weather. A casual prediction of if it will be cloudy or sunny, if rain shall fall or if the breeze shall be strong or gentle.

“To be married,” I have to nearly force the words through my lungs, up my throat, and out of my mouth.

“Indeed, sir.”

I remember that it had been a polkadotted tie. The dots had been blue and the base of tie purple, and Jeeves had hated it. Although, I did fancy the colourful fashion trend that popped up here and there, the true joy came from his undivided attention that I received when I bought the blasted things. I wish I was wearing it right now and he would look at me and only be thinking of me and how awful my tie was, instead of whomever Ruth Benjafield was.

“Congratulations,” I croak out. My clothes feel far too tight against my skin, it had been an overwhelming sentence involving two separately devastating events he had combined it one blow, and I could only seem to comprehend that there was a novel on my toe and it feels far too heavy to only be a mere hundred and fifty pages.

“Thank you.”

Resigning. Marriage. Two weeks. It feels like each word, although I’m sure it had been said a very Jeevesian and succinct manner, is an incomprehensible punch to the stomach.

“I have no plans to leave you without the proper and adequate individual to filled my role as your valet,” He says quietly, “and thus will train someone if necessary and be sure to accommodate for the required intellectual skill set of keeping you from marriage, sir.”

“I say,” I’m clamoring for words as my brain seems to have come to a screeching halt.

Am I supposed to fault a man for falling in love? To lividly scream that he had told me in some flowery language that we would remain together indefinitely? Am I supposed to hold it against him that I had an impossible ideal of our relationship that he did not share? He did not owe me anything, he had done more than most for me throughout the duration of our time together than anyone had ever done for me in my life. There is a hot, burning liquid that threatens to pool over the edges of my eyes and I reach down to retrieve my novel, “Who is the lucky bird, what?”

I do not want to know. I would rather throw myself into the Thames than listen to my valet discuss the new found love of his life as I have spent the last several years just trying to break mental records of how many stuffed frog facades I could dissolve, or how many Jeevesian smiles I could create at the corners of his mouth, or how many casual light touches I could manage to get on his shoulder or his back without his suspicion. My subtles hopes in the late night where he it had felt like he took far too long in the undressing of my person, the lingering looks I had felt like we shared, the lost moments in time where it felt like we were having two separate conversations weaved into quotations, fell into the cracks of the reality of my existence. People of my nature are so desperate to find a kindred spirit, they mistake affection and loyalty for something that does not exist.

“She is a childhood friend I had the opportunity of reconnecting with, sir,”

“Ah,” I spin around to place my novel on the side table and it gives my eyes a chance to air out, “When did this splendid rejoining of two long time connected hearts occur? I don’t recall you mentioning her any time recently.”

“I met with her the evening I had rearranged my night off,”

“She recaptured your heart rather quickly, what?”

“I suppose so, sir,”

My heart was betraying my voice, beating wildly out of sync which caused the whatsits that controlled my pitch to lower and rise beyond the usual range of my vocals. A memory floods into my conscious mind with a hard impact.

_"What is the name of that Greek god that was formed out of darkness and all of that unpleasant stuff but symbolizes love?"_

_"That would be Eros, sir."_

_"I forget the kind of love that it was, rather, perhaps unconditional love? Although that doesn't roll off the tongue in the memory department of my cranium,"_

_"Actually, Eros is depicted as the god of sexual desire and attraction, sir," Languidly, buttons are loosened, slid from their role of keeping the dress shirt tied together, a hand brushes the skin of my collarbone, it is nearly more than a moment, no basis to vocalize the action but I can count his eyelashes in our proximity, perhaps my heart is beating in tandem with his, there is an almost tangible sensation, the room is cold but I feel far warmer than I ought to, "He is also said to be a protector of another kind of love."_

_"I say," There is a pensiveness in my tone, an eerie calm that contrasts the thudding of my chest, the softness in his expressive eyes make me want to place my hands upon his cheeks touch his noble nose with my own, "What kind of love is that?"_

_His eyes project a flicker of an unknown emotion, and my own observe the small separation of his lips, an almost of some sentence that doesn't make its way into an unretractable happenstance, as he places them once more into a firm, solid line._

After placing the novel on the table, the tips of my fingers feel frozen on the cover, as the subconscious knowledge that the moment I remove my hands from it, I will have to turn around once more and attempt an air of contentment or understanding, something that didn’t involve my expression appearing as though he had ripped my heart out and was crushing it with his ever polished shoe. I could not convince myself that I did not look like that now and so I let my fingers curl into a fist and knock several times on the paperback.

“Can you make the young master a b. and s.? I’m just going to pop myself into the bathroom to wash up my face, I feel as if I roughed it up a bit while squirming about on the couch,” I say lightly.

This is a rummy facade of calm, he has to know, but I do not want to put him in such a obvious position that forced him to feel anything remotely akin to guilt. I find my legs moving to the bedroom and I catch his quiet ‘Very well, sir,’ before I round the corner of the room and nearly throw myself into the bathroom, shutting the door.

My legs give out then and my hands barely make it to the edge of the sink before my knees slide to the floor. This is not happening. This cannot possibly be happening, this is some horrible nightmare that I haven’t woken from because this cannot be real, Jeeves wouldn’t do this, he wants this. He said he wanted this, indefinitely, forever, without question or hesitation. This is not happening. Did I do something wrong? Did I misunderstand? Did I cause some kind of change in his mind that forced him to create a new future that did not involve me in any way? My breaths came in rapid motions and I could feel blood humming through my veins, the pounding echoing through my ears as if there were percussions just inches from my slumped over body, and the intangible rip that seemed to be slowly pulling the organ in my chest apart makes me as if I’m bleeding internally.

_“Where did you gain so much knowledge, Jeeves? Honestly, you are a marvel, but the question lies if whether you were just gifted such a skill from the womb or if you inserted it into that head of yours through fish and ancient philosophers,” I sway on his arm, because I’ve had enough to drink to not feel the sting of embarrassment from the action but not enough to forget that he tended to lower his guard when I had a bit too much to drink. I might have overplayed it slightly for the desired effect on his person, but it wasn’t difficult to do as I had been drinking nonetheless._

_He had been washing dishes, still currently occupied with the task, and he tilts his head in my direction as I remain clung to him, “Sir,” His voice is like honey and small bursts of warmth tingle throughout my corpus at the rare tone that could only been described as affectionately amused, “I would believe you would be pressed to find anyone born with an immense array of knowledge without first experiencing life itself.”_

_“You could,” I beam at him with pride, “You are the most incredible chap I’ve ever met.”_

_He seemed taken with what must have been a ridiculous display of warmth for him in my features before smiling, just barely but more noticeable than its usual form, in return, “You have it backwards, sir, but I appreciate your satisfaction of my abilities nonetheless.”_

There is a knock at the door and I clumsily extend my arm to the tap, twisting it, and letting the rushing water to mask my heaving chest which I feared could be heard from beyond the wooden barrier. I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the cool ceramic bowl.

“Sir?” His voice carries faintly through the door and the running water, “It would be advisable to open the door and allow me to-”

“It is fine,” I muster up between my panicked breathing, “It’s quite alright, better yet, take the rest of the night, old thing, as it is a once a lifetime occasion, well for most at any rate, it is the least I can offer for all of your services as both know the extent of which you have helped me in so many ways, it does make the mind boggle, does it not?” I’m rambling in a breathless fashion as once I began to speak, words tend to tumble out, it was covering up the rampaging attack that had crawled into my lungs.

“Sir.”

“How long has it been? Golly, I would have to guess at around more years than I can count on one hand, rather, if I had to take a gander I’ve spent more time around you than I got with my own parents, which I’m not trying to say you are like a parent, you are most assuredly not a father figure, which is not to say that you wouldn’t make a good father, you would but just not to this Wooster, of course you would likely make a good parent, I mean you have such a knack for solving problems any person would be-”

“Sir, please open the door.”

I have never heard him beg until now. It is a quiet demand filled with overflowing concern that it gives me the strength to pull myself into a standing position and take one huge breath before opening the door.

His face is white as a sheet, most likely in guilt over the young master’s state of obvious despair, and I find myself detesting my own weakness. There is a small space between us and I look at him then, and the questions of begin to pour into my head.

Have you kissed her yet? Have you touched her? Has she slid her hand up your chest and left a trail of marks against the skin I cannot see? Has she given herself to you in every sense already? Has she murmured words of passion in your ear and given you release? Lord, what did you look like in that moment, I will never see it, but if I could know, how does your mouth look? What do you say?

I feel sick, more ill than I have ever felt in all my life, “Jeeves, I have to, I forgot that I had, there is this, I believed I forgot my watch at my club, you see, and I really need to retrieve it, so I’m going to run over and pick it up,” I push past him without touching him, “Don’t wait up, please. Take the night and celebrate with your better half or whatever coves tend to call it these days.”

I believe he said something then, but I did not catch in its entirety and I don’t bother to waste any time throwing on my coat and shoes.

I leave the apartment, my feet lacking the sturdy feeling on the stone steps, and I begin to walk. I wanted to think of anything but this, anything but him. I thought of school, of the way a crowd would sound at the end of a sports match, the scribbling of pens in a quiet study hall, snickering jokes made by friends filled with ennui in a vast lecture room. I thought of my club, of Gussie, of Tuppy, of Catsmeat, of Bingo. I attempt to fill my brain with the exact opposite of everything that I associated with him. Something catches for a moment, and I lose myself in it for that very moment.

_“Bertie!” He is laughing, the mole under right eye crinkles when he does, “Bertie, come here. Catsmeat thinks he can beat me in a game of billiards, what rot! You agree with me, do you not?”_

_Bingo is waving me over with an languid exuberance. Catsmeat huffs, the pool stick between his chubby fingers, “Oh tosh, Bingo, of course your husband is going to take your side, he always does.”_

_“I say! Since when did I ever agree to marry Bingo?”_

_“Bertie, we’ve been married since the day we met,” He says while puffing out his chest and I find myself smiling, “It was a drafty day in late June, as I recall,”_

_“I’m fairly certain it was September.”_

_“Bertie, you are putting a damper on my narrative there, chap.”_

_“That’s rummy business, if I do say,” I laugh and he grabs my waist with a rough squeeze which causes me to yip reactively. I was much lankier than he was, although he was moderately broad, he wasn’t huge by any means, “Let go, you ruffian!”_

_“Lord, will you two just quit your affectionate banter and place some money on this bloody game?”_

Bingo may be a romantic flighty soul, and he has, on occasion, been known to be whiny and demanding of my (Jeeves’) help but he remains my closest and most important friend. In Oxford, there was a time he confided in me about his father who at the time had been using him as more or less, a punching bag. We had been squished up together in one blanket, our backs against the wall on the tiny bed that one was given in the dorms and he showed me the bruises that spanned the length of him, head to toe, while shedding a few tears. I held his hand tightly and he proceeded to demand that I tell him an embarrassing secret about myself, as he himself was wracked with the stated emotion and I decided to tell him my darkest secret.

“I like men, the way you like ladies,” Were my exact words. It was whispered, and I remember the tightening of my heart strings as I said it aloud for the first time in my entire life and my eyes had burned with the shame that filled my thoughts.

Do you know what he said to me then? He smacked me gently over the head with his free hand and said, “I meant tell me something that I didn’t know and something that is actually embarrassing, Bertie,”

I must have looked dumbstruck for a long moment, but I never forgot those words, and I proceeded to tell him a long winded adventure of when I fell into the lake at Angela’s birthday celebrations in front everyone while being forced to sing a high pitched rendition of the classic birthday tune, until he dozed off on my shoulder and I followed suit not long after, our fingers still intertwined.

When things felt out of place, before I had Jeeves, I always went to Bingo. It wasn’t that he could help any way that was remotely on the same level as Jeeves, but we had a bond that could not be compared to anything else, and just being around him had always been a source of comfort and security. Which is why, with only the sudden realization of my actions, I am standing in front of the maroon door that belonged to the very fellow. I rap the brass clasp a few times, breathing in the crisp evening air.

“Bertie, what are you-” Bingo had swung open the door in a half-asleep haze, the words a partial yawn, but it dies on his lips when he sees my face. He swallows and I find myself lowering my vision to his socks, mismatched with one grey and the other a light green, and everything seems to fall into fragments after that. I try to speak but the colours are swirling to one and everything blurs over, the socks are no more than soft melded colours and there is a wetness falling from my cheeks, “Come here.”

I throw myself into his shoulder, and his arms envelope me. I let a sob leave my throat, the first one since I had heard the fate of my future, and one of his hands is in my hair, the other wrapped around the small of my back. He pulls us both into the apartment, closing the door with the kick of his foot, and we stand there for an incalculable amount of time as his wool sweater muffles the vocal sobs that my body can’t stop producing. He smells like cigarettes, oak, and embers which I feel as if I cannot be close enough to the familiarity of its essence.

Once I find myself quieting down, he pulls me upstairs, his hand laced in mine without a word, and brings me to his large bedroom. Its shape is nearly a hexagon with rounded edges, there is a window on its right wall that peered out onto the streets below, and the bed is draped in cream coloured sheets with grey curtains that were pulled back and tied to the tall bed posts that almost reached the height of the ceiling. He pushes me down on the surface of the bed and I find myself wiping at my eyes with my sleeve.

“Rosie is at her sister’s for the weekend,” He says rummaging through a smallish cabinet, “Brandy or scotch?”

He is already pouring the brandy, because he knows, but Bingo always had a habit of making conversation when silence was present, and I am grateful for it immensely in this moment. When I’m done wiping my eyes, I notice the small tremor of my fingers when I reach for the glass he offers me. It burns as I throw it back in one gulp and he grabs it from my grasp hastily and pours another.

“What happened?” He asks, and instead of handing me the glass, he pours one for himself and carries them around the length of the bed and plops himself down on the other side. He sips his for a moment before giving me mine once more.

“I fell in love,” I say and I draw my knees up to my chest, “I fell in love and I got my heart shattered into pieces, I don’t know why I’m surprised, Bingo, but I really…” The words fall flat in my depiction. There are no happy endings for people of my nature.

“Who do I have to hurt? I swear to god, Bertie, I will kill him,” He says with such intensity that I almost want to smile, but the burn in my chest is overwhelming and the thoughts are causing my eyes to well up once more.

“No one,” I whisper, “It was merely my own foolish desires, I was completely blinded by my own,” I sip the brandy before placing it on nightstand closest to me, “By my own idiocy, I suppose, my fevered hopes of something that didn’t exist.”

He looks so pained by my statement that he pulls me into his chest, his evened chestnut hair brushing against the top of my forehead, and I found my hands anchoring to him for physical contact. He mumbles into the top of my head, “Anyone would be lucky to have you, Bertie.”

I cry, more silently this time as Woosters should, for awhile longer and we remain like that until we both found ourselves drifting off into a cocooned, aching sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case there is any confusion in terms of the POV: Each full chapter will alternate between Jeeves' or Bertram's perspective while maintaining the flow of the story. (i.e, it will be Jeeves' perspective in chapter two, Bertram's perspective in chapter three, and so on) It is an important detail to the narrative later on, as well the depiction of certain events.


	3. Chapter Two

I do not sleep at all that night. I play it over in my mind as if the only possible way of punishing myself further was to force every agonizing seconds to be relived in excruciating detail such as the red mark on his forehead, the liquid film that glazed over his eyes when he retrieved his novel, the panicked tones of his voice as he spoke and attempted to display a sense of happiness for my situation, because my employer was the most selfless man I have ever beheld and there was not a moment he would try to make sure I felt the least amount of guilt possible by hiding his overwhelming fear. He even attempts to smile, the honey-haired boy is trembling just inches from my reach, and he forces the corners of his mouth to lift as his eyes betray him with a uncommon shine all for the sake of making it easier for me.

It takes everything in my power not to pull him into my arms and tell him that it is all for his Wooster honour, whisper in his ear that he has produced a positive effect on my mind and that he had become an integral part of who I am, which encompassed his self-sacrificing nature, and I would remain his, in every other aspect of the concept. Instead, I let him pass me, allowing the broken excuse he created slide through the cracks, and listen as the apartment door shuts not long after.

I had begun to tell him that his drink rested on the living room table, once he had exited the bedroom, my professional instincts were reactive in nature, however I only get through half of the sentence before I hear the creak of the hinges, and the impact of its closing. I stand there for sometime, in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at the running water of the sink while my nails dig into the wooden framework of the rectangular arch. I turn off tap once I find movement once more, the mirror catching my attentions in the action.

Was there, in some impossible context, a version of ourselves that was incandescently happy? Where wars ceased to exist, where people found the exactly what they needed and never needing to throw themselves into situations that resulted in falling upon their own sword that represented in some abstract sense their own self serving contentment? I never believed in such a ignorant notion that the world could be good and honourable, however, he did. He had become that voice inside of my head that served as an anchor, a reminder of the best parts of humankind.

My dark hair is slicked back, the slight shine of the oil more apparent in the artificial light, there are lines under the creases of my eyes that appear deeper than I recall, my eyes are dull combination of brown and grey, my eyebrows harsh against the paleness of my skin. My looks are nothing to be desired, although looks in my social class are irrelevant as one is meant to lurk in the shadows of one’s masters not to be thought twice of, and I feel a sense of irritation at the familiarity of the details. I am the physical epitome of what one would expect of a servant and it has never ceased to cause me feudal annoyance.

_(He reminds me of a deity; his dark blonde locks with large, blue eyes that soften when his attention is turned to you and you feel a desperation to keep on your person for as long as you can, dimples that surface when he smiles and it causes heads to turn that he doesn’t even realize are meant for him, his thin, wiry frame that seems to be enchanting when he moves, you cannot look away. He is the opposite of me; he commands the attention of a room when he walks in without the knowledge that he is doing it.)_

I throw the drink into the kitchen sink with more force than I intend once I find it in my limbs to find synchrony with my mind. My thoughts remain with him; I think of where he is, it is likely a person he is close to such as a relative or Mr. Richard Little, but I linger on the fact he is prone to impulsive behaviour when faced with difficult emotional dilemmas. The fault in his character, although not particularly a bad one in its entirety, benefited me greatly. Any time he ended up in a situation that was, as he would deem it, rummy, although I detest the word, I was able to show my prowess in resolving it to his favour.

I had no worry that he was in good hands, but the hands in particular worried me despite my logical mindset. He wore his heart upon his sleeve and was a man who adored physical contact, especially coming from his friends that shared a similar educative background. Mr. Richard Little always stood out to me as a person that my employer shared a bond with beyond the realm of the common terminology Mr. Wooster had deemed as ‘school chum’ and I never quite understood the depth of their connection to one another. When Mr. Little had married not a few months prior, he had whispered to my employer “my promise still stands, married or not,” before walking down the aisle, and Mr. Wooster had told him that he was a fool while giving him a soft smile that I wasn’t fond of learning that it wasn’t solely for my person. I never, with good reason, asked for an explanation of this small happening and it felt too intimate to be of something that didn’t involve a matter beyond the concept of a normal friendship. It gnawed at my brain for quite sometime before I forced myself into a laying position until the clock struck four in the morning.

I bathed then, with time of the essence, and dressed with ease. I have already an idea in mind of my understudy but I have yet to ask him. I figure that it would not be a difficult task of convincing the individual, he is young and impressionable, however two weeks of training is hardly a lifetime’s worth of understanding the intricate situations my employer landed himself in and I need every moment’s worth to begin at least the surface of understanding the difficulties of the employment.

“I have a proposal to offer you,” I begin as he is sitting in the middle of the Ganymede club, it is nearly as full as it will ever be, as in the early mornings it is a time valets usually have to themselves, all dependent on the employer assuredly, with a novel in both palms. I can tell by the surprise etched in his features, he isn’t expecting my voice to be directed at him.

“Me?” He looks around, before looking at me once more, his french accent pouring through the single syllable.

“Indeed, you, Vivier.”

His name is Laurent Vivier and he had relocated to England just several months ago to work under Lord Charles Cuthbert. He was incredibly young for a valet, much likely several years younger than Mr. Wooster himself, but from what I had heard from many experienced individuals from our field, he was particularly gifted and picked up skills rather quickly. I used keep up with the social politics with intent interest, but had given it up while under the employ of Mr. Wooster as it held no intrinsic value to my future. He had stood out to me, however, as many had mentioned his name in passing as a climbing, ever-evolving individual that perhaps could surpass my own name by my age. Despite my fondness for my employer, I still greatly valued my own successes I created. Pride may be one of my deepest faults as well as one of my strongest attributes.

He places the book on his lap, “Anything at all, I’m glad to be of service, Mr. Jeeves.”

“I am to be married,” I say, the words still remain almost foreign to my tongue. Blue eyes and the tear stained face of Ruth Benjafield fill my thoughts and I continue, “The role of a valet is not suitable of one in matrimony, so I plan to have a shift in careers very quickly.”

“I give you my sincerest congratulations, Mr. Jeeves,” He gives me with a peering glance, “You will be sorely missed amongst the gentlemen of this establishment. If I’m genuinely honest, you will be missed by me personally, as well. Your name has carried great weight since I was very young,” His modest nature causes him to glance down at his knees, “and well, at any rate, you changed the concept of a valet rather substantially and although I do not know you very well, your accomplishments have impacted my own skills a great deal.”

An ever-evolving individual indeed, “I appreciate the compliment, but there is something greater than a congratulations I’m seeking.”

“I had guessed as much,” His features look rather nervous, but hopeful, “What is it that you seek?”

“A successor.”

His eyes grew wide at my statement before returned to glancing at his knees. I give a quick thought to explaining the true nature of the situation; that I wanted to someone of high intellect to protect Mr. Wooster, someone that I could know without the shadow of a doubt could guarantee the safety and happiness of my employer without going mad with fear that I would read in the tabloids ‘Mr and Mrs. Wooster unite in Holy Matrimony’ followed by a polaroid of the miserable looking shell of my young master with a faceless female upon his arm, that I would be secure as I walked down the aisle of my own that he was being guarded in some fashion so that I didn’t have to feel as though my efforts have been in vain, that a part of me has known I have always done this for him, and would continue to the act through another individual by any means necessary.

Instead I say, “I have spent my life’s work on changing the fundamental role of a valet through subtle and detailed manners that I do not wish to be lost on the next generation of our kind.”

“And you wish me to learn these techniques from you,” He sounds almost awe-struck, his french accent thickening with each word, and I let myself revel in the satisfaction of the sound for a brief moment.

“If you are willing to learn, it would need to start immediately and I will not be easy to impress,” I know I have him, but I weave in the need for my approval to seal his psychological desire, in the art of being to be thorough.

“It is my day off with Lord Cuthbert, but I can start today, Mr. Jeeves,” He says in a rushed tone and he clears his voice a few times, “Where will this take place?”

“At the lodgings of my current employer. I have worked for him for some time, as you know I’m certain, and he is understanding of my situation and has allowed me the luxury of this final act as not only his valet, but as a valet entirely.”

Vivier nods and clumsily straightens his back as he stands, “It sounds as if he is quite the gentleman, what is his name?”

“Mr. Wooster.”

“Desolé, I do not recall his name in the Ganymede book,” He looks apologetic for a moment, and consider reprimanding him for the obvious display of emotion on his features and lecturing him about the importance of neutrality. Instead I hold my teachings for a later date. Although it wasn’t the truth of the matter, my desires to have some semblance of permanency in the field I had put in countless years of labour and effort into bubbled slightly at the bottom of my being. I would inevitably continue in a similar employ as my social class would remain the same, but my time in the Ganymede club would reach an end.

_(You are saving another human being from ruins; you are better than sickeningly panicked fear that is clawing at your chest. This is to be expected, you knew in all your logic that you would not remain a member of the Ganymede club without being employed as a valet. Do not let yourself be swayed by that, you have in your palms the safety of Ruth Benjafield.)_

“He is not in the book,” I burned his name from consideration for anybody else because I am selfish, possessive man that cannot look at him without thinking of my metaphorical claim to him. It felt there was a sense of irony in my actions now, “There was a peculiar incident at Brinkley Court, the home of one of his relatives, that involved destruction of some of its pages.”

“Pages?” Vivier lets flicker of amusement pass his freckled features, “An eccentric master of sorts, I presume?”  
  
“He is most certainly unique,” I offer and I find myself with a pang that occurs in my chest cavity, “I shall write down the address for you. Meet me there in thirty minutes, my employer is currently out of the apartment and staying the night at an acquaintance of his, my estimate is that we will have a moderate window of time before he returns, is that suitable for you Mr. Vivier?”

“Of course, Mr. Jeeves,” He says, “But you needn’t write it down. I shall remember it when you tell to me.”

There is such an apparent shine of determination in his tenseness of his jaw and the stiff movement of his hands placed behind his back. I tell him the address, and he gives the air of hesitation in his right arm, a slight jerk forward of the shoulder. I extend my left hand to give him a subtle sign of understanding and he shakes my hand, the buzzing of his nervousness dissipating into a smooth hum, “Do not be late, Mr. Vivier.”

I make my exit from my club and I purposefully fill my thoughts with progressions and concepts, courses of action, possible outcomes, consequences and benefits to each. I consciously try to stay away from any emotion connected to the situation at hand, viewing as an abstract problem I had to solve rather than the disintegration of my daily life as I knew it to be.

I return to the apartment, beginning my daily chores as I thought, the watering of plants, dusting of the bookshelves and his piano that lay in the corner, the removal of his bed sheets. I am at the final of my listed tasks, when find myself lost in it for a long moment. I had been pulling the cover off a pillow when the aromas of soap, cigarettes, and this sweet unidentifiable scent that is distinctly him hit my senses. Suddenly it is only him in my thoughts, and his beautiful half asleep gaze where he throws himself around a pillow, his arms curled around its rounded edges, his lithe legs pulled as close as possible to its end, the way he let his pink tongue slide against his bottom lip as he holds himself with a death grip to the object, in a trance like state, until I pull open the curtains and his hair and eyes come to life as if fuel by the sun itself. The desire to be an inanimate object is pointless, however, the knowledge does not dissuade my head in that area. He looks charming in a way that is difficult to put into words, he is mesmerizing in the mornings, beyond anything else put on this earth.

There is a disturbance in my revery, as I sat on the very edge of the bed empty of its covertures, and it is a even knock on the door. I know who it is, and I give myself a moment to place the clean, folded sheets that lay on the dresser, a top of the bare mattress before answering the door.

“Mr. Jeeves, hello,” The ‘h’ in Vivier’s greeting is silent due to the accent he attempts to cover under careful pronunciation, “I trust I am on time?”

“Simply ‘Jeeves’ is acceptable and indeed you are,” I motion for him to enter, “I do not wish to waste any time in beginning our lessons. I want to start with your ability to control your emotions under strenuous circumstances.”  
  
“Right,” He seems to be taken off guard by the bluntness of my tone but conceals it in time. It is rough, but I could work with it, assuredly.

“You are young,” I shimmy, as my employer would call it, to the kitchen, Vivier at my heels, “Age can play a factor in the skill set.”

“I do not mean to speak out of turn, but I am a quick study,” He retorts with a careful politeness.

“As was I,” I feel a genuine flicker of empathy at his resolute demeanor, “However, when one has not experienced a multitude of different and ranging scenarios of complexity, one generally will assume that the task of mastering reactions is a simple one.”

“That is,” He is struggling to swallow his pride and desist retorting again. I felt for a moment as though I was peering into my own past self, “a fair assessment.”

“Indeed. I will be testing you later tonight with some statements that will be meant to shock or cause changes in your facial expressions, I will trust that you will attempt to show me with much of the capabilities that you can maintain a air of neutrality in both your body language and your features,” I slide the cloth that hung below the cupboard off of its hook, “In this moment, I will be testing you basic abilities, and giving you feedback on the way you perform the common tasks of cleaning and moving with confidence in an unfamiliar area.”

“If I were a less intelligent individual, I would think you were delegating your tasks onto me,” He states with a grin he smothers with an attempt of unaffected mask.

It nearly makes me laugh, nearly nowhere close to actuality, and glance at him with a subdued incredulous expression, “I assure you that I would be able to perform these tasks at a much better and faster rate you could imagine, and it will be much more of a trial to watch it be done in a manner that is less than satisfactory, to which,”

“I did say, if I was a less intelligent individual, which I am not,” He interjects with sudden nervousness and I raise an eyebrow, “I apologize for the light hearted jab and the interruption, I will demonstrate my best work to you,”

“I expect nothing less.”

He begins in the living room and I observe him from the doorway. He is slightly broader than Mr. Wooster, but he is tall enough to appear thinner than the average build. He has dark hair, similar to my own, but it had such a curly disposition to its genetics that he is unable to simply flatten with oil and, from what I can assume, needs to maintain it at a shorter length to give the perception it is somewhat styled in the subservient fashion. His face is splashed with freckles and I could perceive that he attempts to lighten closer to his skin colour with theatre makeup. He moves quietly and with diligence, there are some choices he makes in terms of the order of importance when it comes to cleaning I note to mention to him, the movements of his dusting seem a bit choppy but there was likely a sense of pressure I am applying by watching him intently.

He moves to dust the piano and I feel a sudden surge of possessiveness I do not anticipate, “I have already completed the piano, it does not need to be done another time.”

It throws him, for a small moment, before he nods at the order. He continues with grace, gliding past the musical instrument and to the tall bookshelves just a few steps ahead. My heart feels slightly tight following my outburst but I attempt to continue cataloguing critiques for my review of his abilities.

The handle of the front door twists and Vivier throws himself into an upright position with his hands clasped behind his back. My stomach twists at the sound and I follow suite.

Mr. Wooster appears to be absolutely disheveled as he opens the door and I feel as though my heart might exit through my throat at the sight. His hair unruly, its honey coloured strands wild and tangled, he is wearing clothes that are not his own and much too large (my mind wishes to wander at the thought of him in another set of clothes that would also be much too large for his svelte figure, but I do not let it, as it will inevitably end in the mentally imagery that involved no clothing of any kind) for him, and his eyes are red around the rims and bloodshot.

“What ho, Jeeves,” He says weakly, and had I been closing my eyes, I do not believe I would have thought it came from him at all, “I was just paying a visit to Bingo, after I had retrieved my watch, but time has a way of slipping by you when you are surrounded by good company, what? He insisted I stay the night, decent chap through and through, and I took him up on-” He pauses when he realizes the other party in the room.

“How bally well rude of me, Jeeves,” He exclaims with facade of exuberance that doesn’t reach his eyes, his voice remaining uncommonly soft, “Who is this young chappie you have in our midst?”

“This is Laurent Vivier, he is the valet I have taken under my wing, sir.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Vivier gives him a small bow and Mr. Wooster seems to warm to it in an instant. My teeth feel pressed together with some force and I could not pinpoint the root cause.

“I say, if you under the proverbial wing of a marvel such as Jeeves, I can safely assure you are in the best hands possible,” He praises me even still and it twists the metaphorical sword in that rests in the base of my stomach further, “Are you from France? You have a dash of an accent although I’m afraid I’m not one to place your bets on for geography, if geography is the word I’m looking for.”

“Yes, sir, from the east of Paris,”

“I spent a summer in Paris with a few school chums when I was attending Oxford, exciting stuff there but I can’t say I have much knack for languages which made the whole experience a bit of an odd one,” He shrugs out of his coat and I take it from him, my hand grazing his for a brief moment and he pulls it back as if it had been painful to the touch. His eyes flicker to me with a instantaneous expression of panic before returning to Vivier with his facade still place, “You seem younger than any valet I’ve come across in my day. That’s not to imply that you are incapable due to your age, my dear chap, just that you must be rare breed if you are so dashed far in your career in your prime,”

“Thank you, sir, that is a compliment far beyond what is necessary,” Vivier seems nearly flustered by my employer’s doting nature and my knuckles feel white.

“Tosh! It is perfectly necessary if Jeeves has selected you,” He kicks off his shoes and he continues warm demeanor, “Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Bingo may join me this evening here, along with a couple of old chums. I’m not quite sure yet but I like to give you a bit of warning just in case a swarm of misfits arrive at our,” His voice dies and the facade begins to dissolve into a look that could only perceived as vacant. He runs a hand through his tangled hair, “my apartment, old thing. It is a jolly good fortune that we have Vivier here to aid us if the occasion presents itself.”

He throws another warm smile in the direction of Vivier, who seems to flush under the attention and I find myself in giving a slight cough which directs his eyes back at my person.

“It is fortunate occurrence, sir.”

“Do you need the night off, Jeeves?” He asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Vivier seems to instinctively duck his head down, knowing that the statement was meant for me alone, and I’m grateful for his display of professionalism, “I know that you are, that you rather have a lot on your plate, and I do not wish to,”

“I do not, sir, although I appreciate your kindness, my current disposition will not affect my employ until the date of its termination,” I meant to say it with a sense of softness, but it merely produces a stricken expression that washes over the features of my Mr. Wooster before he turns himself towards his bedroom door.

_(You want to tell him, you want him to know the entire truth but it is impossible to utter; you want to place your hands upon his tiny waist and wait for his reaction, you want to know if there is difference between his kindness and his desires.)_

“I need to bathe, so I shall go run myself one, do not worry about assisting this Wooster, just continue with your happenings, and pretend as though I hadn’t interrupted in the slightest.”

I watch as he walks himself to his room, shutting the door lightly, and I realize Vivier is watching with a similar interest. I breathe in deeply before I speak, “We can start with the motions of your right arm when you are cleaning places of which are beyond your reach,”

_(The sword twists deeper into my body as I try to will myself not ponder if he thinks of me as well.)_


End file.
